


beneath the monitor lights

by queenofserendipity



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Complete, Drowning, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jemma-Centric, One-Shot, Spoilers, Trigger Warnings, episode-related, post 1x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofserendipity/pseuds/queenofserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling in the immediate aftermath of 1x22, Jemma seeks out her greatest comfort. (Finale spoilers, obviously. Triggers detailed in tags.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	beneath the monitor lights

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had to write this- this one-shot is my way of dealing with my finale feelings. It's fair to say that just like the rest of the fandom, I am desperate for season 2! Anyway, this is my first Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D and FitzSimmons fic, so feedback is appreciated x
> 
> A million thanks to _gracecavendish_ (Imogen) for being a wonderful person and agreeing to beta.

She was falling again, and everything was dark. Screams erupted from deep within her as adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream, making her feel even lighter than the air she was tumbling through. Tears leaked out of her eyes but she couldn’t see or feel where they were going from there- up or down, sideways or diagonally; nothing made sense, she didn’t understand. A million questions made their way to her, but they blew away weightlessly before she could grip them tightly enough. All she could do was fall- fall, scream, and cry. For how long she had been doing this, Jemma did not know. It seemed to her like she had always been falling- long before any of the particles that came together to make her had originated.

Later, minutes, hours, days later, a thought struck her, clearly and painfully, slicing through her mind as a scalpel did to tissue under an experienced hand.

_Fitz._

Jemma tried to scream his name but found her mouth unable to form it. He was here somewhere, she was certain. He was always by her side, near her…But where? Where exactly? Was he calling out for her? Did he need her as much as she needed him?

Suddenly, her clarity became richer and she knew. She was going to hit the ground. Soon. The air seemed to get thinner, the darkness thicker, and finally, metres above the floor she found herself able to scream his name- 

“Fitz”! ---

 

Her gasps seemed foreign to her as she jolted upwards into a seated position, sheets tangled around her, her quilt kicked to floor. Her heart pounded and her chest heaved convulsively. She hunched over slightly, bracing her hands either side of her, and a drop of sweat fell from the tip of her nose onto the skin of her thighs, where her pyjama shorts had ridden up and left her exposed.

“It was just a dream,” Jemma told herself through shaky breaths, “Just a dream.”

However, no matter how many times she tried to tell herself this, she could not calm her racing heart. A few seconds of thought allowed her to form an idea, and still quaking with anxiety, Jemma leaned over and switched her bedside lamp on. It illuminated the room with a soft, golden glow, and she slipped out of bed, careful to avoid her eyes meeting her reflection in the mirror directly in front of her. 

After retreating to her room earlier that night she had steadfastly avoided bathing, and had only spent a few seconds in front of a full basin of water in order to run a cloth over her dirtied face; even the sight of that water had made her sick to the stomach. She felt disgusting, despite the clean pyjamas she was wearing, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. She’d rather feel unclean like this then stand under a stream of water and face a completely different feeling.

Quickly, Jemma pulled on a light white dressing gown and slipped on the equally blindingly white slippers, both provided to her courtesy of the Playground’s sterile wardrobes. She didn’t bother to tiptoe when crossing to the door, nor did she with turning off the bedside lamp. The amount of energy she possessed only allowed for her to snatch up the small torch left on top of the dresser near the door, and switch it on.

Jemma walked quickly, her slippered feet slapping against the floor in rhythm with the pounding in her head. She didn’t allow herself any pity for her fragile state, though. She didn’t deserve it. Fi- he, was in a worse state.

_Brain dead. Brain dead. Brain dead._

The words, the possibility, seemed to echo throughout the corridors of her mind, and she was suddenly overcome with a strong and desperate need to be with him, right that instant. He had already been her destination (he always had when she was needing comfort), but the idea of seconds passing when she wasn’t with him, seconds that could be his last… her last with him...

She clenched her jaw and hurried faster, counting the seconds.

 

Twenty-one of them seemed to be much too long, yet if she expected a sense of relief upon finding herself at the hospital bay door looking in, it was not delivered. Jemma could see him through the glass of the windowsill, and pale in the mixture of various monitor lights. A small, pathetic sob escaped her. She opened the door (Coulson had managed to convince Koenig that she wouldn’t need a lanyard to enter the room), and slipped in, closing it silently behind her. 

Jemma turned the torch off, finding she had little need for wasting it’s batteries. Her teary eyes adjusted the dim light of the room, not completely shrouded in darkness thanks to the screens displaying information on his state, and she moved forward. Numb and tired, the anxiety from the dream and the previous day’s events had been left in the hallway. Autopilot allowed her to pull up a chair next to the hospital bed where he lay and settle into it, bring her legs to her chest and curling her arms around them. Jemma felt completely detached from herself, from the team, from the environment they were in… she felt dissociated from everything except-

“Fitz,” She breathed out, voice muffled against her knees where she had leant her head forward. “Fitz.”

His name filled her lungs like oxygen. She repeated it again and again, for no particular reason except that she didn’t know what else to do. Before long her silent sobs had turned into loud cries that reverberated off the walls white walls. Beneath the monitor lights displaying Fitz’ vitals, she felt broken, and weak. The last moments she had spent with him he had told her he loved her, and then sacrificed himself for her to live. He had done this, for her.

Still crying, Jemma lifted her head and uncurled her legs. She moved the chair closer to him- close enough so that she could link one of his ice cold hands with hers and lean her head on his chest. The rise and fall of his breathing slowed her tears, his pulse calming hers. Somehow, he was still looking out for her. Still comforting her, as he had since the Academy- as he had promised so many times that he always would. 

She fell unconscious like that, her mind drifting to happy memories of she and him, FitzSimmons, until May woke her in the morning and she was faced with reality once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! x


End file.
